


Please Don't Get Me Rescued

by muchmorethanaprincess



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, F/M, Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6423211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muchmorethanaprincess/pseuds/muchmorethanaprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BFF fill for "In grey's anatomy, a doctor marries a patient so he can get insurance. They become best friends and eventually fall in love and I think that would be a really good Bellarke AU." for cherry-lie-made on tumblr.</p><p>Bellamy wants to handle his leukemia on his own. Clarke just won't let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don't Get Me Rescued

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song Rescued by Jack's Mannequin, which is excellent and angsty, and which I listened to while finishing this fic, 100% recommend.  
> Bellamy's diagnosis and treatment is based 1) entirely on fiction 2) Andrew McMahon's experiences, which I shamelessly ripped off thanks to my knowledge from his movie Dear Jack. I am not a medical professional, there will likely be inaccuracies in this fic, please suspend your disbelief appropriately.  
> Enjoy!

2013

The first time Clarke runs into Bellamy at work, it happens so quickly she hardly thinks anything of it. They bump into each other in the cafeteria at the soda machine. It’s a quick exchange of, “What are you doing here?” “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m a trauma surgeon,” Clarke says, giving him a funny look. “I work here?”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Bellamy says, flustered.

When she keeps staring at him and draws her eyebrows together, he startles. “Oh, right! I’m visiting a friend.”

“Cool,” Clarke says, already moving on. “Good to see you, I’ve gotta go!”

She and Bellamy are friends in the “we have the same friend group so we see each other a lot, but we didn’t actually choose each other” sort of way. They don’t have issues, but they aren’t close.

 

But the next day is Friday, so when she shows up at his bar that night to hang out with Octavia and Raven, she notices that he’s slower and less cheerful with customers than usual.

And she notices when his face scrunches up and he rushes into the staff room suddenly. She catches a glimpse of him heaving over a trash can before the door swings shut.

Clarke sneaks in there after a minute. He’s sitting at the desk where he normally does paperwork, his head in his hands.

“You okay?” Clarke asks softly.

“I’m fine,” he rasps. “It’s the stomach flu, probably.”

“Okay. Do you need anything?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll ask Miller to take over for the night and go home.”

He stands and makes to move past her, but she reaches for his forehead, pressing the backs of her fingers against it. He’s a little sweaty, likely from vomiting, but other than that he feels normal.

“That’s weird, you don’t have a fever.”

“Leave me alone, Clarke,” he snaps, pushing her hand away.

She flinches, and storms out.

 

When she sees him at the hospital again a few days later, she actually _notices_ enough to process.

She passes him, almost lifts a hand to wave, but he hasn’t seen her and she thinks better of it.

But it keeps nagging at her as she manages the ER, that she’s seen Bellamy at the hospital twice in less than a week. So she goes to reception and asks if she can find a patient – Bellamy Blake, and feels a cold shock when the perky girl behind the computer tells her he’s in oncology.

She remembers suddenly a few weeks ago, when he was feeling run down – but working anyway, always working – and Octavia told him to go to the doctor.

Clarke wasn’t supposed to hear the muffled argument – both of them whispering forcefully. She wasn’t supposed to hear that Bellamy hadn’t gone to the doctor yet because he didn’t have insurance, didn’t want to pay out of pocket for an appointment when there was probably nothing wrong.

And now he’s a patient, in _oncology_.

She tries not to rush, but she knows she won’t be able to focus until she finds out, so she makes her way to oncology, stops at the nurse’s station and puts on a charming smile to ask the nurse working if, “Bellamy Blake is doing any better?” pretending that she already knows his case.

The nurse rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “He’s fine, just a bit dramatic. We’ve got him on IV fluids because he came in barfing his guts up. You know how first time chemo goes – we tell them how awful it’s going to be, they don’t believe us.”

“Huh,” Clarke says, forcing a laugh. “What room is he in again?”

The nurse gives her a funny look, but jerks her head to the side anyway. “416.”

Clarke thanks her and finds the room, barging in without knocking.

Bellamy startles, and then startles further when he sees that it’s her.

“What the fuck? What are you doing here?” he asks, anger edging into his voice.

“I should ask you the same question.”

He looks away.

“So.” She sits in the chair by his bed. “Are you going to tell me what kind of cancer you have?”

He swallows and glares at her. “There’s no way for me to get rid of you, is there?”

“Nope. I can start guessing, if you want?”

He sighs. “It’s leukemia.”

“Shit.”

He almost laughs. “Shit is right. I’m one of the very few unlucky adults who gets leukemia every year.”

“You’re doing chemotherapy from home?”

He nods. “So I could keep working.”

“Yeah, how’s that going tonight?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Clarke. I’ve got fucking cancer.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. So, we’ll do your next round of chemo here in the hospital, then, instead. It’s not the comfort of home, but--” She nods to the IV pumping into his arm. “--we’re better equipped to help you feel a little less awful, at least.”

“I can’t,” Bellamy grits out.

“Sure you can, we’ll schedule it, you show up, you stay for the treatment—”

“I can’t stay in the hospital, Clarke. _I can’t afford it_.”

She sobers. “Right. Because you don’t have insurance.”

He looks up quickly. “How do you know that?”

“I overheard you and Octavia talking about it,” she says quietly. “How are you paying for this then, anyway?”

He looks at the wall, red splotches creeping up his neck.

“I’m putting it on a credit card.”

“Jesus Christ, Bellamy. _Why_ don’t you have insurance?”

“I’m a small business owner. I take care of my employees but I’m irresponsible with myself, okay? I’m an idiot who didn’t think I’d need insurance – I thought if my colossally bad luck decided to kill me, it’d be all at once in a car wreck or something. Not slowly in the most expensive way possible. Besides, if I had insurance, it’d be the cheapest kind available. I’m sure it would nope out of this shit real quick.”

Clarke shakes her head. “How’s Octavia doing with this?”

Bellamy refuses to looks at her.

“You haven’t told her?” she shouts. “Bellamy, you have to tell her!”

“I didn’t want her to worry. I don’t want her fussing over me.”

“And what the fuck do you think she’s going to do when your hair starts falling out? Or in a year, when you’re in debt and have to close your bar? Bellamy. Have you told _anyone_?”

He continues staring at his hospital bed.

“Okay, well. We’ll figure something out. There’s gotta be a better way to pay for all this, we—”

“Clarke,” he says. “Can you please get out before I throw up again? I feel like shit and this is exhausting. Just, let me deal with my own problems, okay?”

Clarke’s hospital pager goes off just then – a 911 from the ER.

“I have to go anyway. But Bellamy?” She stops with her hand on the doorframe. “You need to tell Octavia. And everyone else, too. You need to tell the people who love you, so they can take care of you.”

 

In the ER, Clarke rambles at Harper, her favorite nurse, while they fix up an idiot who crashed on his motorcycle.

She’s just exclaiming, “And what do you do with someone who’s got fucking (sorry) cancer but no insurance to treat it?”

Harper glances up at her knowingly. “We’re not talking about a patient, are we?”

Clarke flushes. “That obvious?”

Harper shrugs. “You’re just very worked up about it.”

“It’s a friend,” Clarke admits. “He owns his own business, and he’s the kind of person who doesn’t take care of himself the way he takes care of everyone else. A goddamn martyr.”

“You could just marry him,” Harper says flippantly.

Clarke sputters. “What?”

“We have great insurance.” She raises and eyebrow. “Take him to the courthouse, if it’s really bothering you that much.”

“That’s a crazy idea,” Clarke says, despite the fact that she knows she won’t be able to forget it.

“As crazy as letting him go broke getting treatment?”

 

Clarke goes to Bellamy’s bar the next week, when he’s on the rest period from his chemo. _Of course_ , he’s working. She plants herself in front of him and orders a cider. When he sets it down, she takes a large drink, steeling herself.

“I have really great insurance,” she says. He looks up from where he was absentmindedly wiping at the bar, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Okay?”

“The medical group that owns the hospital makes it so we can’t even opt out of it. Everything I need? I get for five bucks. Eye appointment? Five dollars. My birth control prescription? Five dollars. My coworker had surgery to have her hernia repaired? Five dollar co-pay. And I haven’t actually checked, but I’m guessing the chemo would be a hell of a lot cheaper than whatever you’re paying for it on your own.”

“Are you here to rub it in?” Bellamy asks, irritated.

“Right, anyway. We should get married,” she says quickly.

Bellamy’s head jolts up, his face astonished. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We should get married,” Clarke repeats. “So you can be on my insurance.”

“Clarke, that’s crazy.”

“Is it? We could go to the courthouse tomorrow, we don’t even really have to tell anyone, if you don’t want to.”

“Isn’t this illegal? Insurance fraud.”

“Not if we’re actually married.” Clarke shrugs. “We’ll make up a story in case anyone looks into it too much. But they won’t have a reason to.”

“Clarke, you don’t have to do this.”

“Nonsense. You need insurance, I’ve got great insurance. It makes sense.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’d do it for any of my friends.”

“Are you sure?’

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You can ask me that tomorrow before we sign the papers.”

 

They meet at the courthouse while Clarke has a break from work. Octavia’s there, bouncing and more excited than either of them.

“I take it this means she knows your diagnosis now?” Clarke murmurs to Bellamy. He nods.

“Smile a little, you’re getting married!” Octavia nudges them.

“It’s not real, O,” Bellamy sighs.

“I’m just saying, it’s something to celebrate, even if it’s not traditional. By the way, thank you _so_ much for doing this, Clarke. We should go get cake or something afterward!”

“I’ve gotta go back to work,” Clarke says.

“Yeah and I’ve got inventory at the bar,” Bellamy chimes in.

“Well,” Octavia mumbles, “you two are perfect for each other.”

Clarke’s cheeks go pink, and she ducks her head, feeling stupid over it. It’s a fake marriage, just a piece of paper. They’ve never had feelings for each other, so she doesn’t understand why her stomach is fluttering.

 _Marriage is a big deal_ , she tells herself. _That’s all_.

 

Besides a few nights at the bar, when Clarke is on one side with Raven and Monty and Monroe, and Bellamy is on the other, they don’t really spend time together until his next round of chemo.

He doesn’t tell her when it is, but his sister is either bugging him enough or he’s decided to be open with her, because Octavia calls Clarke and asks her to keep an eye on him while he’s in the hospital. They reworked his treatment plan after the month it took for him to be added to Clarke’s insurance, and he’s going to be staying in the hospital for the foreseeable future. They agree that between Clarke’s work schedule and Octavia’s classes, they should be around enough that he doesn’t get too bored or lonely.

When Clarke stops by his room, he has a stack of books next to his bed, but he’s staring at the wall.

“I might start throwing up soon, you don’t have to stay,” he says, as if it’s some huge burden.

She half smiles. “I cracked open a patient’s chest in the middle of the ER today. I can handle some puke.”

There’s a pause, almost awkward.

“I don’t like being seen like this,” Bellamy mumbles.

“Have you told anyone besides Octavia?”

He shakes his head. “Miller’s managing the bar for me. He asked what was up but I brushed him off.”

“You know your hair’s gonna fall out at some point, you won’t be able to hide it anymore. If they don’t start wondering why you fell off the face of the earth, first.”

“It’s not a big deal if I just stop seeing people.”

Clarke scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. You need support, Bellamy. You need to let people be here for you.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy stops her. “I know you technically are my wife, but we’re newlyweds. You don’t have to start on the nagging part already.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, it’s your life. Hey, if we’re married, does that mean I sort of own the bar now?”

Bellamy laughs. “I’ve got a will, it goes to Octavia. If we’re married, does that mean I get half your paycheck?”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s certainly big enough to share. You got some debts that need to be paid off?”

He shakes his head at her, smiling ruefully.

“You know they made me go to a sperm bank before I started chemo?”

“Yeah, they usually do that.”

“Who knows if I even want kids though.”

Clarke props her chin in her hand. “I don’t believe that. You’re like, the kiddiest single guy I’ve ever met.”

“Jesus.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Is that the reputation I have?”

“Just with us,” Clarke says easily. “So. You want to be a stay-at-home dad?” She waggles her eyebrows. “I make enough money. I could be your sugar momma.”

Bellamy laughs until he starts coughing. “God, please don’t say that ever again.”

Clarke grins, and he settles down again.

“When I got diagnosed, I thought—well, the first thing I thought was, holy fuck, this _would_ happen to me, you know? Of course, as if I haven’t had enough bad luck in my life, I get fucking leukemia as an adult. Anyway, I thought I was ready to fight this. But I’m not doing anything, really? I’m just sitting here as they pump drugs into me, hoping that they work. But there’s nothing I can do one way or the other to make them work. I’m not fighting, really. I’m just waiting.”

“Are you scared?”

“Not yet.”

 

When Bellamy’s hair starts falling out, they cut it down to an inch and a half. Clarke misses his floppy curls, but she quite likes the short cut on him. It sets off his cheekbones nicely, and it would be perfect if it wasn’t for the dark, sunken circles under his eyes from the treatment, which makes him feel like death.

But it falls out more rapidly, and the next week they buzz it. Clarke hears a murmured, “fuck!” from the bathroom after he’s brushed his teeth, and when she asks what’s wrong, he shows her the towel he used to wipe his face—most of his stubble has come off with it.

And then just a few days later, they take the rest of what’s left of his beautiful head of hair off with a lint-roller.

 

Clarke sees him every day while he’s hospitalized. It’s easy to stop by his room at lunch, talk to him while she eats, and act like it’s no big deal.

She brings him books to read and movies to watch, and lets him talk her ear off when he gets worked up about some of them.

She regales him with stories from the ER and the operating room, making him laugh one moment, and demand to know what happened the next.

“You make me wish I’d done more than own a bar,” he sighs.

She looks at him thoughtfully. “Being a surgeon certainly has its highs, but…” she trails off.

“What?”

She lifts a shoulder casually. “The lows are pretty bad too. Having someone die on the table? Worse, actually killing someone because you’ve fucked something up in the surgery. When there’s nothing you can do from the very beginning. Not to mention just the god-awful hours and being on-call. I mean, I love it, and it’s fine right now, but if I ever wanted to have a family, if I was every serious about someone… I don’t know, there are sacrifices. Trust me, your bar’s not a bad deal.”

“It’s not what I would have done if I hadn’t inherited it, though.”

Clarke nods. Octavia’s told her about the old man who owned the bar while Bellamy worked there in college for years, how he died suddenly only for Bellamy to find out that he’d willed the whole place to him. Bellamy said it was the only bit of good luck he’d ever had in his life.

“You could still do something else,” Clarke says, optimism in her voice. “Get a masters, go into another field. You could do whatever you want.”

“Maybe once O’s done with school.” He slumps back in his hospital bed. “As long as I’m not dead by then.”

“You won’t be,” Clarke says, surprised by how fierce her own voice is.

But Bellamy’s grown drowsy from the conversation, and he smiles wryly.

“Whatever, you’re the doctor here,” he says, and nods off.

 

Clarke finally makes the decision to tell Raven, and she and Bellamy fight about it. She shows up for her daily visit just as Raven is standing to leave, Bellamy smiling widely at her but dropping the cheerful expression the moment she’s out of the room.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks, his voice an angry whisper.

She sighs. “I told you, you couldn’t hide this forever. Raven’s been asking about you for weeks, it was only a matter of time before she figured it out herself. I made a call, I’m sorry you’re unhappy about it.”

“I know you have some stupid thoughts about a ‘support system’ for me, but—”

“No!” Clarke cuts him off. “No, I did not do this for you. I did this for Octavia. If you want to rot in this hospital room by yourself, that’s your own damn problem, but Octavia is spread thin right now, trying to do well in her classes and keep track of you at the same time. She’s so desperate to do everything she can and it’s hurting _her_ to not have people she can rely on to help you when she can’t. That’s why I told Raven. So Octavia could have someone to talk to, and someone to call to check in on you and cheer you up when she can’t. If you want to punish yourself, that’s fine, but I was done watching Octavia suffer for it too.”

Clarke storms out.

Bellamy doesn’t apologize necessarily, but she finds out from Octavia the next day that he told the rest of their friends, and that’s just as good.

 

Clarke doesn’t notice that she’s clocking less time in the OR than she used to, working more reasonable hours, until Harper points it out.

She doesn’t realize that she’s happier either, laughing more and smiling all the time, until Harper points that out too.

 

Bellamy gets pneumonia. He goes from regular-chemo-feeling-like-death to _actually_ feeling like death more quickly than seems possible.

They pump him full of antibiotics, but with his immune system compromised, it’s sketchy business.

“Clarke,” Bellamy whines, huddled in his bed and shivering violently, a skinny disease-wracked body. She hadn’t realized he was with her, mentally speaking, even though he clutched her hand.

“Yeah Bell?”

He turns his head, makes the heroic effort of opening his eyes to look at her. “Now I’m scared.”

 

The doctors don’t make any promises, and for the first time, Clarke understands what it is to be the helpless family member while the doctors and nurses swarm around a patient.

That night, when Bellamy has finally fallen into a fitful sleep, Clarke runs her fingers over the freckles on his arms, tracing patterns and trying to ignore the stark contrast of his veins through his skin, the way his muscles have shrunk with disuse.

“You’re not allowed to die, Bellamy. I’d never admit it to your face, but I’m not saying this just for Octavia either. I mean, for me. You can’t die because… you need to stick around for me. I’m just beginning to know you, Bellamy. And it is in the worst goddamn circumstances, but I _like_ what I’m finding. I want to know you when you’re not sick, the way I should have before. Or maybe—that’s not right. It’s not that you being sick or healthy has anything to do with it, I just—” she cuts off, flustered. “I think I want to know you for the rest of my life. But you have to stick around so I can do that. So you can’t die, okay? Because I’m just starting to love you. So you have to give me the chance to follow through, okay?”

 

The drugs do their job, and the pneumonia clears up. Clarke brings him Chinese takeout, and they spend a night watching movies to celebrate.

And then miraculously, the other drugs have done their job too, and he’s in remission.

Octavia screams when they find out. Clarke cries. It feels too good, too easy, and Bellamy feels the same way, if the shocked look on his face is anything to go by. Clarke leans over him, without thinking about it, and plants a kiss on his forehead.

“ _Remission_ ,” she whispers, and he raises his eyes to meet hers.

“Maybe my luck is looking up?” he says, with an unsure smile.

“It is,” she says firmly.

 

But there’s another hurdle, because his remission is only temporary, more or less, the doctors explain, without further treatment. They want a bone marrow transplant.

“I’ll do it,” Octavia volunteers immediately.

Bellamy turns to the doctor explaining the process to them. “She’s my half-sister. That decreases the chances of a match, doesn’t it?”

The doctor agrees, but notes that there’s still a chance, and otherwise the national registry might have a good match for him.

“Not with my luck,” he mutters, but Clarke’s the only one close enough to hear it.

 

Except she _is_ a match. Bellamy feels guilty about asking this of her, insists that if she isn’t completely sure, she doesn’t have to do it. Octavia just rolls her eyes and says he’s being an idiot. But Clarke sees the worry around his eyes, understands that he’ll never get over the fear of something happening to his sister being his fault. So she just grabs his hand, acts like she doesn’t see the way he turns to her, surprised for a moment. She acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world, for her to hold his hand. Because it should be.

She wants it to be.

 

The transplant goes smoothly – or as smoothly as could be expected. He does extra chemo and radiation, to get every last cancer cell they can, and then Clarke holds Octavia’s hand (at Bellamy’s insistence, since he can’t be there) while they extract bone marrow from her hip. And then she holds Bellamy’s hand as they let the cells slide into his central line.

A shiver runs through her, like she’s watching something magical.

But it’s still a game of chance.

 

After the doctors have observed Bellamy long enough (several weeks) and are confident that the transplant has been fine so far, he gets discharged, and with everyone’s agreement, he and Octavia basically move into Clarke’s house.

It’s a logical decision – she has the space, and Bellamy needs to have support. It’s important to both keep him physically healthy and keep his morale up through his recovery. But there’s still something about having him sleep next to her in bed, so Octavia can have the guest room instead of taking the couch. There’s still something about coming home to him at the end of the day.

She hopes she’s not the only one who feels it.

 

It’s a countdown – if he can make it to one hundred days post-transplant, then everything is looking up. It means he hasn’t rejected it, it means he hasn’t had any life-threatening infections, it means he’s building strength. Clarke checks his central line and the area around it every other day for any signs of infection, she makes everyone visiting him wash their hands like they’re scrubbing in for surgery, she takes him to his appointments, and she counts down the days.

And she becomes acutely aware that if anything terrible happens to him now, she’s going to be destroyed right along with him.

 

All Bellamy wants to do when he hits his hundred days is go back to work. He admits it’s stupid, but he just wants something normal, something from what his life used to be before all of it, and Clarke and Octavia let him think they’re granting him just that. He promises not to jump back into work full time, but that’s how he wants to celebrate – a night behind the bar with Miller, like always.

So they plan the best damn surprise party they can come up with.

Monroe and Monty get the decorations, Raven gets the cake and orders pizza, and Miller closes the bar to anyone who isn’t invited. Clarke and Octavia invite everyone who cares about Bellamy, every friend who visited him, and his best doctors and nurses from the hospital.

Clarke loops her arm through Bellamy’s on the walk to the bar. He’s pulled a beanie over the short fuzzy hair he’s managed to grow since the transplant, and though she misses his curls, she thinks in her totally biased opinion that he looks _really_ good. He’s bouncing with energy at going back to work, and his cheeks are pink. _Healthy_ , she thinks.

He’s confused when he sees the bar, completely dark inside, looking down at her questioningly. She shrugs and looks away, trying not to be obvious.

“What’s going—” he says, cut off when he pulls the door open and Miller flicks on the lights, and the crowd of people who love him scream, “CONGRATULATIONS!” There’s a banner over the bar that reads, “100 days!!!!!!!!” and Bellamy turns to her, amazement on his face.

“You did this?”

She feels her face go red. “And Octavia. Everyone helped, really!”

He gets swept away by all the people who want to congratulate him, and Clarke lets him, heading to the bar for a drink.

 

It’s later in the night that Clarke realizes things might change soon. She’s standing with Bellamy, talking to Octavia and her new boyfriend Lincoln, who was one of Bellamy’s nurses during his hospital stays. Though Bellamy was chagrined at first (“He’s seen me naked, O!”) he got over it eventually, and they’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.

“Hey,” Octavia blurts out, a few drinks in, since she finally feels like she can let loose. “You two probably don’t even need to be married anymore!” She waves between them.

Clarke feels Bellamy’s hand tighten on her waist.

“Well, he’s still got so many check up appointments, you know,” Clarke says, blushing.

“And if I relapse, I mean,” Bellamy pipes up.

Clarke elbows him gently. “You won’t.”

He glances down at her, a frown on his face, and nods. “Right. I know, I know.”

Silence falls over them.

“Wait, what am I missing?” Lincoln asks.

“Bell and Clarke got married because he didn’t have insurance, and Clarke’s rocks. He couldn’t have afforded his treatment without her.”

Lincoln tilts his head, staring at them. “That’s funny. I never would have known that it wasn’t real,” he murmurs.

“Excuse me,” Clarke mumbles, pulling away from Bellamy and rushing to his office, closing the door behind her and leaning against his desk.

She knows it’s not real. She’s the stupid one for making this more than it should be.

“Hey.” Bellamy peaks his head through the door. “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” she says brightly, trying to mask the confusion that must be on her face.

He steps inside and closes the door.

“Huh. This is where it started for us, wasn’t it?”

Clarke glances around. She didn’t bother turning on the light, so there’s just the dim glow from the door’s tiny window.

“Yeah, if I hadn’t seen you barfing and chased you in here, I don’t know when I would have realized you were sick.”

“Thank you for marrying me,” he says suddenly, like he’s been trying to get it out. It makes Clarke’s blood freeze.

“Yeah. Right. You’re welcome. It was no big deal.”

He frowns. “It was a huge deal. You saved my life just as much as Octavia did. I’ll never be able to repay you.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t want you to repay me, Bellamy.”

“Then what do you want?” He pauses. “Why did you get upset out there?”

She stares at her feet, focuses on what she can feel. Her toes, in her socks inside her sneakers. Her fingers, tapping on the underside of his desk, where the edge presses into her thighs. The thumping of her heart as it aches for her to touch him.

“I don’t want to be… not-married to you,” she edges out.

“I don’t want to be not-married to you either,” he says easily.

“What?” Her head whips up to look at him. He’s smiling, almost laughing. “I don’t mean about the treatment, Bellamy.”

He shrugs, stepping closer to her. “I don’t either.”

“I mean that I want to be with you. I mean that I love you,” she says, her voice desperate.

“Well I wasn’t going to make you say it, but since you did,” he grins, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into him until their lips are only an inch apart.

“I love you too, Clarke.”

She sighs in relief – at his words, at the feeling of finally kissing him, gripping his shirt to hold him to her. He presses her into the desk and molds his body to hers, running his hands soothingly up and down her trembling arms, breaking away from her gently.

“At the beginning of all this, you said you’d do this for any of your friends, and I believed you. But then every time you’d do something amazing all I could think was, _God I hope she wouldn’t do this for just any of her friends_. And then I heard you that night, when I had pneumonia and you thought I was asleep and might die any second.”

“You were awake!” She pushes at him indignantly.

“Not totally. To be honest I kind of thought I was hallucinating. But then everything after… you just kept being there every time I needed you. I thought, I _hoped_ , that I hadn’t imagined it.”

“It didn’t mean anything when we started this,” she says. “I just thought, you have a problem, I have a solution. But you’re—” she cuts off with a small laugh. “It would have been harder not to love you,” she whispers. “Once I let myself…” She lifts her shoulders softly. “It was so easy to love you, Bellamy. And it would be so difficult to stop.”

He nuzzles at her neck. “Even when I don’t have any hair?” he jokes.

Clarke laughs. “Even then.” She pulls his head back up to look at her. “The only repayment I want from you is for you to live a very long, and very happy life, okay?”

He ducks down to kiss her again. “I think I can manage that,” he mumbles against her lips.

“I’m gonna hold you to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed this fic, thanks for reading! :)


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